


Who You Are

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Deepthroating, Dom/sub, M/M, Neglect, Throat Fucking, split loyalties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 05:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17156054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: After a complex relationship with Grom Hellscream in his youth, Thrall decides to approach his alternate on Draenor in hopes of striking a bargain and ending the war. When Grom misreads Thrall's attempts at empathy, however, the older orc finds himself at the young warchief's mercy.





	Who You Are

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flarenwrath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flarenwrath/gifts).



> There is quite a bit of violence apologism here, but it is all intended to be from Grom's perspective and not my own. I just wanted to make that clear!

Thrall could barely make out Grom’s strong shoulders and high, dark ponytail under the thick cover of Ashenvale trees. He led a band of Warsong, blood-soaked and furious, down the road from the kaldorei encampments to the north, and it didn’t take a warchief to figure out what he’d been up to. Thrall pursed his lips around his tusks and approached. Grom’s eyes flashed with a fire Thrall hadn’t seen for months…

“I need to speak with you,” Thrall tried to sound forceful, but it was hard standing before the Warlord like this. 

Grom let out a huff, and the grunt to his left rested his hand against the hilt of his axe. What some might have called insurrection, Thrall, again, excused as impetuousness, making another excuse for his much older friend. He was just trying to win territory for the Horde. But now the Horde had treaties with Theramore and Grom…Grom’s thoughts seemed elsewhere, somewhere dark: a place Thrall knew he shouldn’t be straying. 

He sighed, trying to keep his shoulders straight as he waited for Grom to dismount and come to his side. It was hard, though, to stand tall when every thudding step Hellscream took shook him to the pit of his chest.

“I was doing what needs to be done,” Grom finally insisted. Gorehowl clattered against his back. His bare chest, slick with sweat and blood that hadn’t yet dried, rose and fell when he said it. His frame was merely a shadow of Thrall’s, but he had a presence, a sense about him, not unlike the crackling of lava ready to pour forth onto the earth. 

And Thrall knew that ferocity all too well. He had seen it in his friend’s eyes when he faced down the Legion, when he learned about Proudmoore and Thrall’s commitment to build a united front. He drew in a breath and waited. Grom shot him a look, and then snapped through gritted teeth, “You forget your true allies, Thrall. You’d have us freeze at night just to please these monsters who care nothing for us. Did Tyrande sign your _treaty_ , Thrall? Come, tell us how she intends to see us through the winter.”

“Grom, that is _enough_ —” Thrall cursed himself for sounding so small. His protest disappeared beneath the clatter of weapons and the howl of a worg being led to her pen. He was keenly aware of the Warsongs’ eyes on his back and of what they must be thinking, seeing their warchief challenged like this. 

Drawing in a breath, he straightened, and tried, a bit louder, “I will speak to you in private." 

But Hellscream’s voice rang from every tree, cutting through the woods like a roaring river. There was not even a whisper of hesitation to be found, “What you have to say, you can say in front of my people. Come, Thrall, tell them how you intend to starve them this winter so you can go on fucking that human girl. Tell them!”

“Grom, that is _enough_! I will speak to you in your quarters. This is no place to have this discussion.”

“No? And yet it affects them all, every last one of them. But come, let us speak in hushed voices like humans. That is what Orgrim gets for choosing a human to lead us.”

Thrall’s chest tightened at that. It felt like a wave of dread washed over his shoulders, clammy and hopeless, and finally his stance faltered. He cast his friend a glance, but Grom wouldn’t look at him. Where Thrall’s bottom lip shook, Grom’s curled up into a sneer. 

“What has come over you?” He finally managed, fumbling, more than he cared to admit, with the latch on the warlord’s wood door. Now that they had left the warband behind Thrall expected his friend to lower his voice, but he just growled, as forceful as ever. 

“My people are starving, Thrall. Another child passed last night because we didn’t have wood to heat the fire. Whatever you’re trying to do with the elves and the humans isn’t succeeding, and I won’t stand idly by—”

“That does not mean you can kill with abandon. There are other ways. If we are to exist here—” 

“It won’t be alongside those elves, and you know it. Whatever Proudmoore does for you won’t make these ‘night elves’ any less cruel. Humans can be reasoned with, but the _kaldorei_ —”

“Don’t even see us as sentient, I realize.” Thrall sighed, shaking his head. He probably shouldn’t be acquiescing to Grom, not after that display outside, but it was difficult with the older man standing in the doorway, his hair stuck to his sweat-soaked forehead and his eyes burning with protective need. 

This wasn’t just the war-hungry orc he had met in Alterac Valley. Unbridled strength had ceded to stubbornness: the kind that comes with age and experience. He had seen their people broken, enslaved, dehumanized in the mud pits of Durnholde, and now he was seeing them whither away from hunger and cold while the night elves enjoyed the forest and all its bounty. 

Not knowing what else to do, Thrall turned away and found a basin of water beside Grom’s sleeping mat. Pulling out a scrap of cloth from his bag, he bent over, soaking it with water then wringing it nearly dry. With the towel in hand, he returned to meet Hellscream at the threshold. Their eyes locked, and then he reached down to wipe the blood from the warlord’s chest.

The familiarity—submission, even—in the gesture seemed to set Grom at ease. When they spoke again, it was not with the bickering of competing leaders, but instead with a gruff snap of a mentor displeased with his student. “Thrall, don’t forget yourself. Whatever you’re trying to do—”

“I do for the Horde. Please,” Thrall’s fingers lingered a moment too long on the warlord’s tattoo, grazing over the soft bump where green and black came together. Without thinking, he let his hand stray from skin to the bone necklace swinging against his chest, and then up to a stray lock of hair. It still felt wet to the touch, and he couldn’t help but frown. His old friend looked tired, ragged, even, and beneath his skin his bones were starting to show.

But Grom was having none of his pity. Catching his braid in his hand, he gave him a tug, yanking him forward until their tusks knocked together. It was a low, hollow ‘clnk’ that soon got lost in lips pressed flush together. Thrall tried to draw in a breath, but it was too late. Grom had his braid twisted around his hand, and his grip, that same grip that had clutched his axe only hours before, still proved to be unwavering.

Thrall shuddered. What else could he do with the older man pressed up against him like this? It was a power play, but it felt so right, just like their chance encounter in Alterac, their cabin together on that boat that had crossed the sea…

Those few stolen moments in Stonetalon when they had first celebrated victory for the Horde on Kalimdor.

Despite his diminished state, it seemed, that fervor hadn’t left Hellscream. His hand finally released its grasp on Thrall’s hair, but only to wrap around his waist and grab his backside. Thrall cursed the undignified whimper that escaped his lips. It felt like admitting defeat, but he yielded nonetheless. Eyes squeezing closed and legs shaking, he rocked forward, his hips rolling against Grom’s in a desperate attempt to seek friction through his iron codpiece.

It wasn’t enough, but Grom was well on his way to helping as he tore at the buckles holding the offending item in place. It hit their boots with a crash, but neither of them took a step back. Thrall, instead, pressed his face against Hellscream’s shoulder, and the warlord shoved his hand into the front of his linen pants. Soon Grom’s fingers encircled his half-hard cock and he was desperate, so desperate for that touch, all misgivings and irritation abandoned like his armor on the floor.

Grom pumped, and Thrall’s cock twitched and leaked against his calloused fingers. His knees buckled, and Grom bit his ear. And when a breath caught in his throat, he heard the warlord’s whisper, sharp but thick with emotion as it tickled him through his hair:

“Never forget who your true allies are. Never forget that we need you.”

____________________

The bonfire came into view as soon as Thrall reached the Path of Glory. To his right, the ironworks smoldered and puffed smoke across the magenta sky, but on his left the encampment almost looked…peaceful. A cluster of orcs sat shoulder-to-shoulder with mugs in hand, and their laughter would not have felt out of place in Orgrimmar, or even Dalaran.

And yet Thrall knew he was a fool for what he was planning to do. They were at war, and his own fel exposure had marked him as an outsider. Why, then, did he tighten his grip on Snowsong’s reins and hasten into the valley, boots clanging against her stirrups and heart high in his throat? 

His eyes fell on a familiar silhouette, his strong shoulders and high ponytail casting their shadow across the grass. He sighed, shaking his head. He best not lie to himself any longer. He knew what he was here to do, and what was at stake in facing the young warchief. But even if he never returned to the Horde encampment, at least he would die knowing he tried to put an end to this war before any more orcs on either side lost their lives.

Clenching his jaw, he dismounted and smoothed out his tunic. It took only a step towards the fire before one of the generals noticed, and he dropped his beer with a splash, hand fumbling for his axe and teeth flashing as he whirled around and called out, “You! Fel orc. Stand down.”

And with that, they were all on their feet. Well, all except for one.

Thrall stood his ground but kept his expression neutral, his eyes moving from the Warsong general who had sounded the alarm to another, broader orc with grey skin. For one conflicted moment he thought he might be looking at Orgrim, but, no, this Blackrock was younger and heavily scarred, with tusks jutting out at uneven angles. He didn’t have the same warm eyes Thrall had watched as he eased Orgrim into the afterlife. 

It was him who spoke next. With a heavy step over the log, he closed the space between them, staring down at Thrall with a distasteful snarl, “He’s not Gul’dan’s. He’s one of those outsiders. I saw him riding with Draka yesterday morning.”

“The one from the portal?” The Warsong grunt guarding Grommash finally spoke up. 

This seemed to get the warchief’s attention enough to set down his beer and turn away from the fire to watch. Even under the cover of smoke, his gold eyes all but glowed. “Bring him over,” he gestured, and before Thrall had a chance to react the Blackrock orc was before him, his iron grip closing around his shoulder and dragging him towards the flames. When he finally released him, his glove caught and snagged Thrall’s stiff collar, but Thrall didn’t reach up to smooth it. He was too taken by the way Grom’s voice rumbled like thunder whenever he lifted his head to speak. 

“So it’s true,” Grommash nodded and straightened his back, cutting an imposing figure even as he looked up at Thrall. Whether it was the heat from the fire or the cluster of generals surrounding him Thrall wasn’t sure, but when he tried to swallow he felt weak: clammy, even. He forced his gaze to stay steady even as his hand clenched by his side. 

The warsong grunt readied to draw his axe but Grom’s stare remained focused, Gorehowl still buckled, untouched, behind him, and he persisted. It was as if his words and confident stance were enough to ensure his protection. “I thought I saw an orc standing beside that _thing_ they call ‘Khadgar’ but I didn’t want to believe it. You shame yourself, fel orc.”

A murmur passed through the group. Thrall remained unmoved, however. He had heard far worse from his friend, and looking upon him now he was struck by just how young he looked. There were no hint of wrinkles or shadows under his eyes, and the tattoos on his chin seemed fresh. His onyx hair still caught the crackle of flames when he shifted, and his voice boomed not with experience but youthful recklessness. He couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five. 

Thrall might have even smiled if they had met under different circumstances. But youthful or not, he couldn’t help feeling unnerved. Between the warchief’s guards and a kind of barely-restrained rage he sensed in the younger orc, he knew there was danger bubbling just beneath the surface, ready to issue forth at a single misstep.

He drew in a breath, and, reaching down to the earth to steady his shaking legs, tried his voice, “Warchief Grommash, I come to you as a friend. I offer a ceasefire on the sole condition you turn over Garrosh. No more orcs need to die for him.”

It sounded practiced, and he knew it, but Grom didn’t hesitate to reply, “The prophet, you mean? What do you want with him?”

Grom didn’t seem to know who Garrosh was. Well, that would make this easier, at least. Letting out an exhale that had caught in his throat, Thrall spoke more firmly this time, “He doesn’t belong here. He’s a fugitive from my world, and all we want is to retrieve him and restore peace to this planet. You should not be living like this—”

His eyes strayed towards the ironworks up the hill and the orcs, it seemed, caught his meaning. The Blackrock general huffed and tightened his grip on his axe. In Grom’s eyes he caught a hint of…annoyance, yes, but also a kind of shame he hadn’t expected. There was a pause, and then the warchief rose from his seat and adjusted the strap running across his chest. “I will speak to you alone. Follow me.”

“Warchief?” The grunt’s half-formed protest was cut off by the clang of Grommash’s boots stepping over the log. 

“You heard me. Let us through. Or do you think your warchief too weak to stand up to some orc from another world?” It wasn’t a growl or a snap, but his voice—that rich, thundering voice Thrall had admired in his youth—was enough to put every orc, even Thrall, in his place. 

He followed without hesitation, staring at the familiar axe harnessed to the warchief’s back as they made for an iron garrison. He couldn’t help but wonder if this was Garrosh’s axe, the blade that had soaked up Y’shaarj’s tendrils and spilled them back out on the earth, but when the moonlight caught its unblemished surface he decided it must be a duplicate. Just like Grom himself, it was solid but unscathed, fresh from the flames that had smelt it, but every bit as strong. 

In Thrall’s youth, he had pondered how different things would have been with Grommash as warchief. Orgrim’s decision to appoint him, instead, hadn’t passed without criticism, of course. There had always been those who had growled and insisted that Orgrim was delusional in his final moments, that Grom, not some kid who barely spoke Orcish, was destined to lead the Horde. And in truth, in those dark moments without guidance or backing, Thrall had often wished the older orc could take his place.

Even though he’d always known what kind of person Grom was, how impulsive and _dangerous_ he could be, he had just wanted to step back and let him rein in the Horde with his raw, Orcish strength: that power he saw now in every movement and gesture, in the way grunts tripped to the side to make way for them, and the ripple that ran through Grommash’s back as he pulled open the door. 

He followed the warchief inside to a lit brazier in the middle of the room, and then the door closed and they were alone.

“Tell me, what’s really going on here,” Grom circled around to face Thrall. His jaw was set in a line, making it clear that he wasn’t looking for niceties. 

Luckily, Thrall was prepared to answer. As intimidating as Grommash was, something about being alone like this was intimate, known. He nodded, then, clearing his throat, began to explain, “The one you call ‘prophet’ is an escaped convict from my world.” Realizing that ‘convict’ was a loan word from Common, he tried an older explanation, “Sentenced to give his life, and he came here to pull you into his vengeance against us.”

“You say that, but the weapons he brought have saved us. No orc has gone hungry under the prophet. No draenei can stand up to our might.”

“He betrayed his allies. He destroyed sacred ground and made a pact with monsters. He nearly killed an innocent child. He has no honor or dignity. You must understand.”

“No, you must understand, outsider,” the warchief grunted and closed the distance between them. Thrall could almost feel the air tremble around him when he shook his head, thick hair swinging and his bone necklace ‘clck’ing together against his skin. Staring down into his blazing eyes, the shaman almost faltered. It took everything in him to keep his shoulders straight. 

Grom seemed to catch something in his expression, because he paused, then, lowering his voice, followed up his shout with an almost desperate exhale. “Our world is dying. I don’t know where you’re from or what Garrosh did to you, but we are trying to survive. Don’t you see? Every day the plants wither and we must struggle to stay ahead of the fel’s destruction. I will not just cede to it like you.”

“Grom—” Thrall began, and, caught up in the moment instinct took over. Pursing his lower lip around his tusks, he frowned. His hand strayed to Grommash’s hair, trailing from the side of his face down to his shoulder. 

Underneath his touch, he felt the orc shift and straighten, and then the growl that built low in his throat shook through him, tugging him back to reality with a single, short: “ _What?_ ”

Almost blankly, Thrall looked down to their point of contact. Green skin contrasted brown and black, and when he shifted, Grom moved, almost tensed, before shooting back with another snap, “What do you think you’re doing, old man?”

Thrall’s fingers tensed and fell away. He immediately felt bereft of that softness, of that familiar skin and hair now untouched by the stresses of age, but he forced his hand to his side. It was only after he blinked and looked back into Grommash’s eyes, however, that the gravity of his action finally hit him. Before him, the younger orc stood dumbfounded, wide-eyed, then scowling through gritted teeth, until irritation finally yielded to something else. 

Was it smugness or self-import? Thrall couldn’t really be sure, but when he saw it, his stomach clenched and his face went cold.

“Is that what this is about?” Grom tried again. Although he was shorter than Thrall, he seemed to rise when he said it. Maybe it was the way he puffed his chest that made him feel that much more intimidating. Finally forcing his legs to move, Thrall took a step back, but the warchief was there to meet him. His iron boot jutted with a thud into the space between them.

“Look, you’re too old for me, fel orc. I’m flattered, but I don’t need a father figure to comfort me.”

“That’s not—” Thrall managed, cursing himself for how strained his voice sounded. If Grom noticed, however, he didn’t acknowledge it, instead just reaching over and grasping the ridge of Thrall’s jaw to wrench him back into eye contact. 

“If you’re horny, old man, just say so. Don’t come to me with charges against the prophet expecting me to, what? Hand him over and accept you in his place? Pathetic.”

“That isn’t—” Thrall’s voice was still thick with emotion, but he cleared his throat and forced his words to push through it. If nothing else, he needed to put an end to this, no matter how often the dragons had warned him not to disrupt the past and how bright he knew his cheeks burned in the brazier’s light. Swallowing, struggling, he finally managed to spit out, “I knew you, Grom. I knew you in my world and this isn’t you. This isn’t—”

But it was, and Thrall secretly knew it. The desperation, the bloodshed, the belief that ensuring his clan’s protection could come at any cost, all of it was the Grom he knew, but he couldn’t let him slip through his fingers again. He couldn’t resign his friend to that fate, to fall under Alliance swords or to end up restrained in that prison of Khadgar’s. 

His stomach churned, but all the conflict and pain that played out in his chest never made themselves known to Grom. Instead, he let the young orc stare, brows raised, and jaw set in a line. He felt his hand clench against his jaw. “Well, what is it? You know me, or you don’t? I don’t understand you.”

Leaning into his touch despite all of his intentions, Thrall closed his eyes and willed his breath to steady. “I am here to help you, Grom. Please, let me.”

He had expected a growl or even a snap, but what he got, instead, caught him completely off guard. Even as Grom slid his fingers down through his beard to grasp him by the chin, he felt the orc’s hand quiver, and then he heard laughter: a low, throaty chuckle that spilled from his lips with abandon. “You want to help me?” Grom pressed and gave Thrall’s face another yank. There was nowhere left to look except into his flashing gold eyes. “I’ll let you help me, but I’m not trading the prophet for some orc dressed like a pale-skin. You want to be useful? Get on your knees. I’ll fill your mouth with something other than lies.”

_But that’s not it!_ Thrall wanted to insist again, but what good would it do? He had come here to help, to find resolution, but when Grom touched his face he lost his breath to a memory of what they had once had. He felt like a young orc again and could remember just how it felt kneeling before the mentor he loved and admired. 

He wanted that. He hated it, but he wanted it, and no gruffness or insult or purpose was going to deter him from sinking down on his knees. 

Grom laughed, and a tremor passed through him, making his cock twitch and press against the leather cords holding closed his pants. Maybe this was what he had come here for, after all. But that doubt quickly yielded to wordless need, and he lifted his hand to Grom’s belt, unhooking it just the way he had always done.

He could feel the young orc watching his bald head. He dared not look up, even when he finished with the latches and let the heavy garment fall with a ‘clank’ to the ground on his left. Now he had access to the front of his pants, and he slid his palm over the smooth, iron codpiece, and then unhitched and opened that armor, as well.

Finally he had access to the leather undergarment barely concealing Grommash’s cock, and when he trailed his fingers over that bulge in his pants, he felt him twitch and stiffen with interest. That alone satisfied the shaman. If he could still please Grom like this, after all these years, perhaps they could even rekindle that bond they had once had.

Clinging to that last thought, that last hope, Thrall slid his fingers under the leather lacings. Making quick work of the knot, he eased open his pants. Once the garment parted, he could make out the thick trail of hair running from Grommash’s navel to the base of his cock, following it, wrapping his fingers around his shaft and, finally, easing him free. 

Grom let out a grunt of approval that Thrall barely heard. He was too caught up in the way Grommash felt—so rigid and flushed—and the brazier light catching on the ring through his slit. That had never been there before, Thrall realized. Such a tiny detail made the shaman’s face hot, standing as a reminder of what he was doing kneeling before a stranger. 

Needing assurance that this was right, that this was _Grom_ , he chanced a glance up and found the warchief’s gold eyes staring down at him in the shadows. He swallowed. Grommash’s hand found the back of his head and gave him a firm nudge forward. 

“What are you waiting for?” The warchief persisted, with the same impetuousness that seemed to guide all his dealings, but Thrall just gave in. He let the young orc’s hand splay across the back of his head and push him forward, up onto his knees, until the head of his cock bumped against his lips and Thrall had to open to accommodate.

Wrapping them around his head, he dipped forward. Grom’s ring felt hard and cool as it slid back along his tongue, and it drew a slight gag from his throat. Grom didn’t loosen his grip but instead grunted and dug his nails into Thrall’s bare head, seeming to ride the sensation. When Thrall realized there was nowhere left to go but forward, he willed himself to relax, to accept this strange iron addition, swallowing just as he felt it tickle the back of his tongue and the warchief’s hair brush against his nose. 

There was no waiting or working up to things with Grom, after all. Thrall knew as much from their days in Ashenvale and expected the same to hold even truer here. Closing his eyes and resting his free hand lightly against Grom’s thigh to steady himself, he waited for the first thrust. There was a pause, a moment for the warchief to readjust his grip, and then he jerked forward, back along the shaman’s tongue and down, with a slight roll of his hips, into his throat.

The intrusion stretched him, and he strained to adjust. Trying to draw in a breath, he struggled to fill his lungs. All he could find was Grom’s scent and the muskiness of his erection as it slid out and thrust, almost immediately, back in his mouth. 

Grom rocked and all but grabbed Thrall by the ears with his next jerk forward. Between the scratch of nails against Thrall’s bald head and bleariness brought on by hindered breaths, the shaman started to feel weak. Eyes closed and body at Grommash’s mercy, he swallowed and let himself be used, just as he had when he was younger and so eager to please, and just as he knew he wanted so badly now.

His cock pressed, insistent, against the lacings of his own pants, but he had to leave it abandoned. Its throbbing and ache made him feel even more at the young warchief’s mercy; he trembled at the thought, at the knowledge that he needed something from Grom he would never give. Instead the warrior just thrust and leaked pre-cum onto his lips, and he murmured, licking them, enjoying that taste for but a moment before the weight on his tongue returned and occupied him once more. 

Every time he fought for some relief of his own, Grom was there to take. With every gasp, Grom just kept driving his cock forward and moaning with abandon into the shadows that surrounded them. This was about him, the young warchief, and Thrall was just a piece in his own satisfaction. That thought was the last one Thrall knew in his breathless haze, before bleariness and ache robbed him of all notions of who he was and what he was doing in that enemy garrison.

After that, there was only Grom’s thrusts, his thick cock and that ring against the back of his throat. There was only half-conceived dreams of approval, and the warchief’s cum, hot and thick, as it spilled on his tongue and in a spurt down his throat. 

Finally, Grom slid out. Thrall swallowed then coughed in a struggle to catch his breath. From his vantage point on his knees he watched the warchief take a few steps back and ease himself back into his pants. There was a pause. Thrall’s cock still throbbed, but he couldn’t bring himself to reach for it.

Finally, after a moment in the shadows, Grom spoke, his voice thick and hoarser than Thrall would have expected, “There, you got what you want, fel orc. You can go.”

Realization came back to flood the pits of Thrall’s chest: where they were, what he had tried and failed to do, and the young orc standing triumphant before him with no intention of accepting an armistice from an old fool who had let his feelings get the best of him. Thrall didn’t know what to do. Even if he had wanted to talk, his throat was too raw to form the words. 

“Did you hear me? Get out of here. If you’re expecting an invitation to my bed, you really are a fool.”

Thrall struggled to rise to his feet. Though standing, he hesitated again, just long enough to study Grom’s face in the shadows as he passed, to take in his boyish glare and the way his eyes flashed in the firelight. He wanted to reach for him, but knew he couldn’t, he shouldn’t.

That didn’t stop his breath from hitching, however, when he heard the warchief’s next words: 

“Never forget what you are and where your true loyalties lie.”


End file.
